Greetings:

It was natural to spend a few moments of reflection yesterday – Father’s Day – thinking of my own father. He passed away not much more than a year ago and my mother wanted me to say something about him at his funeral, which I must say was nicely attended by so many of his friends and family. He was a well-liked man.

What I said at his funeral was a mere reading of something I had written about my father on Father’s Day 2008, ten years before his death, for a column in our local newspaper. I thought I would share it with you. Thanks for listening. Sincerely, Steve

The View from Here

Tri-Lakes Tribune

Father’s Day 2008

As Father’s Day nears, it is the time of the year we fathers take stock in what kind of dad we have been and what kind of dad we want to be. It also is the time to appreciate anew our own fathers, if we are lucky enough to still have them around.

I had the perfect opportunity a couple weeks ago to spend a week of quality time with my father, and came away from the experienced with renewed admiration and love for my dad.

My dad and I live 500 miles away from each other, so much of our communication happens on the phone. Having him under my roof for a week was a special treat. Once a year we make a point to get together and I always cherish the experience, learning something new about my father and myself.

On the surface, my father is a common man. He grew up on a Nebraska farm with his dog Tippy and seven brothers and sisters. He walked to a tiny rural school house miles down the dirt road, graduating at the age of 16 from Dixon High School, which no longer exists. 

My father went to work immediately after high school in a hardware store, making small-town retail his career for most of his lifetime.

My father has never been to New York City or Hawaii. He rarely ventures too far from his home, a modest bungalow on a pleasant but unpretentious street in the middle of America.   

My dad has his vices. He has smoked since he was 16, a fact that seems to pale when you consider he is turning 80 next year and is still spry and healthy. I’ve never seen my dad wear a seat belt, a habit that seems irrelevant when you consider he has driven thousands of miles on dangerous two-lane highways and never had an accident. His diet would mildly alarm any qualified nutritionist, but he still weighs in at the same 168 pounds he’s carried all his adult life.

My dad seems to have worked out a way to stay mentally and physically healthy, in spite of himself.

He drinks countless cups of coffee, but hardly ever touches alcohol. He’s never “exercised” in his life but has spent a lifetime of hours mowing lawns and fixing things around the house. He loves to spend a roll of quarters in Cripple Creek but has never been to Las Vegas.

He goes to church every Sunday but never passes judgment on others or condemns those who don’t share his beliefs.  Like the rest of his life, he is the quiet, smiling usher, never the preacher.     

He helped raise three relatively happy and well-functioning kids. He has been married to the same woman, his high school sweetheart, since 1950. He has outlived all his siblings, many of whom lived to be quite elderly.

But beyond all my dad’s outward traits and quiet lifestyle, is where you can find the real man who I’m fortunate enough to call my father. You will find anything but a common man.

He has far more wisdom than his high school diploma would imply, for example.

I look to him in times of crisis and he is always there with calm and common sense. Even when he tells me what I already know, it is reassuring to hear from him what is the right thing to do and what is the right way to look at a problem.

I keep learning from this man. On his recent trip we were discussing the fear of death that older people have. “I’m not afraid of death,” he told me. “But I am afraid of dying.” It seemed such a simple statement, but I spent days thinking about what that meant and how truthful it was for him, and for me.

Conversely, he listens to me, even when I say things that aren’t so common sense or calm. Ever since I was a rebellious young man in the 1970s, he listened and didn’t judge my sometimes outrageous and crazy statements. And I have made quite a few outrageous and crazy statements in my lifetime. 

“He loves me and supports me no matter what,” I told one of my sons as we talked about my relationship with “Grandpa Pete.” It doesn’t get any better than that for a son.

“I can talk to him about anything, and he takes it in stride,” I added.

I guess the experts would call this a good example of “unconditional love.” Whatever it’s called, it feels good and I hope I can give the same to my sons.  I also hope that when I reach my father’s age, if I reach his age, I can look back at my life with the same sense of fulfillment he should be feeling.